


wyvern not?

by v3ilfire



Series: i fought the war, but the war won [8]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, the doc title for this is 'nerds making out in a closet'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 08:15:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12626829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v3ilfire/pseuds/v3ilfire
Summary: After a long morning of hunting wyverns, the more daunting task is mingling with a bunch of Orlesian nobles. Wine, as per usual, presents itself as a fitting solution and reason to make out with the Champion of Kirkwall in a broom closet.





	wyvern not?

**Author's Note:**

> i operate within a slightly skewed timeline in which the acts take more than one year each, so let's call this year five-ish, after 'alone' but before anything serious starts to go terribly wrong.

Fenris was surprised at just _how_ uncomfortable he was among Orlesian high society, considering that getting dirty looks from the nobles in Hightown was a daily pastime for him. Perhaps it was Varric’s nagging insistence that he be stuffed in formalwear and boots that smelled of new leather and pinched his toes, perhaps it was the fact that he couldn’t trust Tallis as far as he could throw her -- either way, he dreamt of home and not a bed in Chateau Haine that he would have to excavate from beneath throw pillows at the end of an already dragging day.

Said excavating would have already been done if he didn’t have to get dressed to _mingle_. Pants, shirt, vest, boots -- he refused the silken scarf that Varric’s tailor included at the last second as it was uncomfortable around his throat and looked generally stupid. Truthfully he missed the trusty scrap of red fabric he’d worn on his arm the last three years, but that had been whisked away for cleaning with all the armor that was coated in mud and wyvern. It just made the experience of fine tailoring and fancy fabrics in various textures of black all the more foreign.

Fenris only looked in the mirror as the beginnings of a party were beginning to stir in the courtyard below his window. If the glass was being honest, then perhaps he would be able to forgive _one_ of the three-hour fittings he had been forced to sit through. Had Hesta not been there to suffer them alongside him, they would have been _completely_ intolerable.

Before leaving the half-privacy of his borrowed room, he rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows in one final attempt at comfort. Maybe the exposed markings would keep people looking down their nose at him at some distance.

The foyer that lead to the courtyard was blissfully empty only for the split second after Fenris finally found his way to it through a thousand winding hallways. Just as he made it too far into the room to escape unnoticed, the door to his left suddenly opened wide enough to let someone to slip around it. Much to his relief, when he turned to face the intruder, he found Hesta standing there.

Their eyes met and broke their tired faces into wide, foolish grins. Until, that is, Fenris tried to take in the sight of her black and crimson fineries and found himself staring at the awkward way she pressed her left arm to her vest.   
“Were you hurt?” he asked, leaving an embarrassing amount of panic to echo through the room. But instead of some glib dismissal of a hunting injury, he watched Hesta’s grin turn mischievous.  
“Not at all.”

Instead of marching them both towards the celebration outside, she crossed to him and looped her available arm through one of his and promptly stuffed them both into a very small, very dark storage closet. His eyes adjusted in time to watch her pull an entire bottle of wine free from underneath her shirt.

“I borrowed this from the kitchen,” she explained, though judging by the fact that she then freed the cork from the bottle with her teeth and let it fall carelessly to the wayside, she had no intent to return it.   
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” he teased. He had to be careful when he crossed his arms; there was only just enough room between them to _not_ knock the stolen wine from Hesta’s grip.   
“Please, Orlesians don’t make me nervous. Just itchy.” She paused to knock back a sizeable gulp of wine. “Are _you_ nervous?”  
“I’m itchy. Shouldn’t you be drinking _after_ we get the jewel?”  
“We have to mingle until _nightfall_. Tallis should count herself lucky that I’m not already singing old Fereldan folk tales in the nude.”

She had a point. Fenris did not protest the bottle when she offered it to him; it had been a while since he ran out of Aggregio, and she, reasons to celebrate.

He felt her foot tap against his ankle as he took his swig of a sweet summer wine. “Scoot over a bit, something is stabbing me in the hip.” He obliged, naturally, and waited until she found a better portion of shelf to lean on at the cost of some of the meager space between them. They were nearly chest to chest then in the darkness, her feet crossed in the space between his, the bottle held gingerly to the side to avoid being martyred for a moment’s peace.

This close, Fenris began to smell something… floral. “Since when do you wear perfume?” he asked as he passed the bottle back.   
“Varric and Tallis bullied me into it. They said I still smelled like the inside of a wyvern.”   
"I wouldn’t be surprised if _the inside of a wyvern_ was some exotic, high-fashion scent here. I’ve seen stranger.”   
“ _Wyvern_ not?” she snickered. Fenris rolled his eyes while she drank. “I should have grabbed two.”  
“There’s not enough wine in Thedas to make me enjoy spending time with nobility. Present company excepted, of course,” he added as the eldest daughter of House Amell reached over and pinched his side. “I’m surprised you didn’t go for _wine_ not.”  
“Well, well, it seems the pupil has become the master.”

Hesta had to turn her head to avoid hitting Fenris square in the nose with tempered glass. He wondered how much of him she could see, or if his eyes were simply catching enough light from the crack beneath the door to alert her to the proximity of his face. He was able to make out the shape of her with enough certainty to admire a rare look at the Champion without her armor, her still slightly damp hair loose about her shoulders. Evidently, he underestimated just how much her human vision was allowing her.   
  
“What’s that look for?” Fenris shook his head, but when he reached for the bottle, she brought it to her chest and hunched over her ransom. “Not until you answer.”   
“You won’t like it when I do."   
“Try me.” Unfortunately for her, he knew exactly what to say to win this little game.   
“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I want to commit that to memory.”

Fenris didn’t need to see the color of her face change when he could feel the closet grow suddenly warmer; to think it only took a little honesty to still the mighty Champion.

Stunned and flustered in equal parts, Hesta straightened herself and thrust the wine back in his direction, probably hoping a good long drink would wipe the smug smile clean off his face. They were already halfway through the bottle, somehow. He would have pointed that out, but as soon as he lowered the thing away from his mouth, Hesta popped from the shelf she had been leaning on and closed what little space was left between them. She kissed him -- softly, at first, but the rush of sneaking around got the better of them.

Soon, Fenris decided to playfully push her back to her trusty shelf, willfully ignoring whatever rattled above their heads as long as it made no plans to fall. His arm hit the handle that had been poking her in the hip on its way to circle around her waist, while her hands ran through his hair and down to his shoulders. Several objects around them clattered in protest as they made plays at getting more comfortable without success, forced to giggle their way through cramped legs and shoulders and in one case, a broom that tipped over to smack Hesta on the side of the head.

Perhaps not the most romantic kiss they ever shared, but there was something nostalgic about the urgency and the thrill of sneaking around. He was perfectly willing to sacrifice a little comfort for that.

What stopped them in the end were the clicks of dress shoes from outside the door and a woman’s woeful complaints.

 _“But Teagan,”_ she whined, and Fenris jolted back so fast his head hit the wall behind him. He hissed a _fasta vass_ on impact, choosing instead to bury his forehead in Hesta’s shoulder while the pain rolled through. She slapped one hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, and as soon as the Teagan in question stopped to ask his companion if she’d heard something, looped the other arm around his shoulders to hold him in place and away from further injury.

 _“Hear what?”_  
_“I could have sworn I heard something from in there.”_ _  
_ _“I_ knew _there were rats here. Oh, I cannot wait to tell Dulci de Launcet. I hope her room is filled with them. Did you see what she was wearing, Teagan?”_

The conversation moved past the closet door and out to the courtyard. Having apparently dropped the hand covering her mouth, Hesta leaned in as close to his ear as she could, and whispered, “But Tea- _gan_!”

A half-chuckle escaped Fenris as he pulled himself upright to lean - carefully, this time - back on the wall. Hesta had to restrain another laugh when he casually brought the bottle of wine bottle back to his lips, genuinely surprised that the damn thing made it through the last five minutes without dropping from his grip.   
“Now there’s a talent.”  
“I wasn’t about to let your efforts go to waste,” he said as he passed it back to her.  
“Thank the Maker, or else I’d be _wine_ -ing all night.”

That one was his own fault, and he knew it.

They polished off the rest of the drink in a warm silence, both tipsy enough in the end to make a proper entrance to the festivities (and then eventually become drunk enough to tolerate them until nightfall). The empty bottle was left behind as they filed out into the open, both a little giddy and disheveled, rushing to straighten themselves lest poor Teagan realize that the rats in the closet were a bit bigger than he anticipated. Once they were presentable, Hesta wove her arm through his again, and they readied themselves as if for battle.

“Five sovereigns says I can find us another bottle before you can.”  
“You’re on.”


End file.
